Casualty
by chrissie0707
Summary: Missing Scene for 4X16 "On the Head of a Pin." He's dead already, knows it with a sudden, sickening certainty. Some part of him was doomed to die the moment he crossed the threshold of this room. He told the damn angels that. FINAL CHAPTER POSTED.
1. Chapter 1

_Author Note: Watched "On the Head of a Pin" on the plane a few days ago, and started having thoughts for this missing scene. Once I let my little cohort know what I was up to, she demanded more chapters. So this is one of those was-gonna-be-a-oneshot-but-will-now-likely-be-at-least-two-chapters things. I'm telling you, I have no control over any of this. So stay tuned for more OTHOAP fallout from Dean's POV. I've done a couple of tags from Sam's POV, but not Dean. Also sorry. This is pretty dark._

* * *

 **Casualty**

 **Chapter One**

The first hit sends him straight to the unforgiving concrete, and Alastair never allows him to find his feet after that.

Dean's ears are ringing, vision fuzzing and strobing as he struggles to collect himself, fingers scrabbling for purchase against the cold, hard ground. A shadow falls over him, and a cruel chuckle echoes over his head. He gets his hands under him, spits a mouthful of blood as he levers up a few inches on trembling arms. He rotates his head, tries to put as much defiance as he can muster into the glare he levels at Alastair.

It's a futile effort, doesn't mean a damn thing. He's dead already, knows it with a sudden, sickening certainty. Some part of him was doomed to die the moment he crossed the threshold of this room. He _told_ the damn angels that.

They didn't even give him a chance to say goodbye to his brother. Whisked him off and then left him here. Sacrificed his soul to Alastair like it's theirs to do what they want with.

And now they're nowhere to be seen. No one's coming to his aid. He knows it, and the demon knows it, drives the point home as he takes his time before delivering the next hit.

The rock-hard fist to the temple tells Dean all he needs to know. Alastair might have given him a chance to escape, might have gone the slow, torturous route, if Dean hadn't just done so himself. There's no sense of savoring the moment in the vicious, perfectly-placed blows raining down on his face and head. Only rage.

Maybe he showed the son of a bitch that the student learned a little too well from the teacher.

That's what it is, what lives in the brief respite between blows. Pride. Alastair is beaming, grinning around blood-stained teeth as he beats the crap out of him. Because Dean _earned_ this.

He tries to fight back, because he doesn't know how _not_ to. To block the next hit, at least, protect his head the way he was taught. He manages to gets an arm up between them only to have it wrenched back. Only to have a foot connect with his ribs with a _crunch_ that empties his lungs as it flips him to his back. Still, he shoves up, coughing blood, maybe because it goes against everything his father instilled in him to lay down and take it, maybe trying to get back to Sam. Maybe just wanting it to be over already.

A punch cracks his head against the concrete, stunning him, and he loses track of himself for a moment. He feels the snap of his skull against the ground, the pain, but the next round of kicks land dully along his ribs and back. He _knows_ that they hurt more than he _feels_ them hurt.

He never stood a chance, not really.

 _The first time you picked up my razor, the first time you sliced into that weeping bitch...that was the first seal._

Alastair's words left him vulnerable, open and unguarded, and he'd just _stood there_. Just _taken_ that first hit when he could have ended the son of a bitch.

 _As he breaks, so shall it break._

Demon knife in his hand, but muscles like putty. _Will_ like putty.

 _When we win, when we bring on the apocalypse and burn this earth down, we'll owe it all to you, Dean Winchester._

If that's true, then he more than earned this.

He deserves it.

He lies still, breath coming thin and wet and shifting things inside of him. He has no sense of the time that has passed, as his body reels from sensory overload, traitorously limp and unresponsive. He blinks, and _maybe_ gets a finger to move. Nothing really _hurts_ , but there's warm wetness on his face, his neck. Tracking from his temple and following the curve of his eyebrow. Streaming from his ears and bubbling at his lips, running down his rapidly clogging throat.

Alastair grabs him by the shirtfront, hauls him up from his sprawl across the concrete with frightening ease. The pathetic croak that escapes his lips seems amplified, rebounding throughout the room like the blood rushing loudly in his ears. He takes two more hits to the face, and everything on the left side of the room goes hazy and red-tinged.

An iron grip locks around his throat, and the toes of his boots skip across the concrete as his feet leave the ground. Suddenly he _can't fucking breathe_ , begins to panic.

He tries instinctively to raise his arms and break the demon's hold, but they won't obey, just hang uselessly at his sides, heavy and wooden as Alastair squeezes what's left of his life out of him.

He's saying something, but Dean can't make out the words. Can't do much of anything, except hang there. He's not pulling in any air, and he can't move. His vision goes from red to gray as the pain radiating through his body begins to dull.

He's got just enough sense left to know that's a bad sign, but not enough to care.

Dean's more gone than not when he crumples to the ground. With no hope of softening the fall he lands hard against his hip and shoulder, little sparks of agony exploding as his starved lungs strain reflexively for oxygen.

There's commotion over his head, fast-moving blurs of action as the cavalry finally rushes in, but it's a futile effort, doesn't mean a damn thing.

Some part of him was doomed to die the moment he crossed the threshold of this room.

 _To be continued..._


	2. Chapter 2

_Author Note: So I THINK there will be another four chapters to this happy, light-hearted piece. :P_

* * *

 **Casualty**

 **Chapter Two**

He comes to with a start, jerks with a gasp that catches painfully in his throat. Spots dance in his vision as he gags and chokes, and the strong arm locked across his chest tenses.

"Dean?"

 _Sammy?_

He tries reflexively to answer, can't manage anything beyond a wordless noise of pain.

"Hey, man, just – just hang on a little longer. Okay?"

He doesn't remember what happened, but if his brother's tone is any indication, it must be bad. It must be really bad.

They're in the car. that much he knows. He recognizes the low, steady rumble of the engine vibrating up through the bench seat as he struggles vainly to draw a full breath. Blurry spots of light pass at a frightening speed. Only a slipstream of oxygen makes it down his swollen airway, and he writhes in discomfort. He tries again to speak, croaks, warm blood on his tingling lips.

"Jesus, Dean, just a few more minutes."

Sam is trembling, hugging him one-armed and holding him upright as he drives.

It must be really, really bad.

He wheezes, reaches up a clawed hand to tug at whatever is wrapped around his neck and cutting off his air, but his weak fingers find nothing there but chilled skin slicked with what has to be his own blood. He's strangling from the inside.

Sam adjusts his grip, drags Dean's hand away from his throat. "Don't mess with it, man. Just hang on."

He snorts, gargles blood. Can't Sam see he's already been hanging on for months? Since he coughed up dirt and shredded his fingers climbing out of his own grave. Since the last time his starved lungs begged for relief. At least this time he's not alone.

He tries to twist, to see his brother, and figures out very quickly that's a _bad idea_.

He reels, unable to make sense of what happened, of how they got here, why he can't breathe. The car takes a turn too fast and his wooden, unbalanced body slips against the seat. Sam hikes him straighter and he blacks out momentarily as something shifts in his chest, as fiery pain explodes in his head.

A firm, steadying hand splays against his sternum and over his head, Sam mutters a frantic mantra of "sorry sorry." The hand stays put, communicating _don't fucking move_ , and that's not really an issue, because it's not really a possibility.

He gasps dumbly like a stranded fish, numb legs hanging off the seat, one heavy arm draped across his lap. His thoughts slide loosely in his battered, huge-feeling head as he focuses on breathing, and suddenly he remembers.

 _When we win –_

A fist crashing in his face, over and over.

 _\- when we bring on the apocalypse and burn this earth down –_

Pounding on him until he can no longer feel the blows.

 _\- we'll owe it all to you, Dean Winchester._

Everything dimming, Alastair grinning as he crushes the life out of him.

The memory has him bucking against his brother's hand, and he hears the tires squeal as Sam wrestles to maintain control of the car. He arches away from the contact, numb lips moving soundlessly as he strains for breath.

"Calm down, Dean. You gotta calm down."

His head is spinning. Hazily, he thinks he remembers Cas there, in that room, but not Sam. Fresh panic flutters in his rattling chest as the thought of his brother there, with Alastair. "How," he manages, and Sam shushes him, says something about saving his breath, his strength. But he can't. He doesn't have much left to save. "Cas – "

"He's not here, man. He couldn't…I had to get you out of there. Get you help."

Sam's not getting him. He might die in this car, weak and broken, but not without some damn answers. He needs Castiel to tell him if there's any validity in what Alastair said.

 _The first time you picked up my razor, the first time you sliced into that weeping bitch...that was the first seal._

He's pretty sure he knows the answer already.

He bites his lip against a spike of pain in his chest, a familiar shifting of broken, scraping rib bone as his lungs heave desperately. "No," he rasps. "He – " He runs out of air, gulps greedily, but nothing gets through.

His panicked wheezes fill the car, and the hand on his chest trembles. "Seriously, Dean. Stop trying to talk. Alastair's dead, man. You don't have to worry about him anymore. Just hang on." His brother's talking a mile a minute, voice shaking.

It doesn't matter. The damage has been done, his body crushed to match his spirit. His soul. He's dead already, some vital piece of himself left behind in that room. Sam has to feel it, the lifeless chill in his uncooperative limbs.

Without warning, pressure in his throat increases and the precious little air he's been pulling cuts off completely. He flails as panic surges in his chest, and Sam struggles to keep him upright, still.

"Dean!"

He's light-headed, confused, cold. The lights whizzing past overhead dim away, and he claws at the seat, the dash, Sam's leg, scrabbling for purchase and trying to keep the black at bay for as long as he can.

"No, no, no." Sam's voice pitches higher. "Don't do this, Dean."

The Impala presses forward with a growl, then jolts to a stop so violent it nearly pitches him from the seat. His brother is screaming for help as the curtain starts to fall, his voice nearly unrecognizable.

And he thinks, if the last thing he hears is Sammy, that's an okay way to go.

 _To be continued..._


	3. Chapter 3

_Author Notes: Who else has a case of the Mondays? Actually had to do some research for this chapter! And this was just gonna be the one short tag! I blame Nova for this. As usual. I'm pretty sure she's cool with it._

* * *

 **Casualty**

 **Chapter Three**

He spends some time in a gray in-between where there isn't much pain, but there isn't much anything else, either.

It doesn't feel like he's in Hell, but he has to be. Alastair says he started the apocalypse, toppled the first domino. There's no place in heaven for Dean Winchester.

He wakes in stages; slowly at first, the gray haze receding like gauzy layers peeling away. Then all at once, his eyes blowing open as a heavy blanket of dull, persistent pain falls over his body. His immediate instinct to breathe wars with the uncomfortable but familiar pressure of the tube down his throat. He vaguely remembers knowing better, but has a moment of panic all the same. He raises a clumsy hand to paw at the tubing, has his fingers snatched away.

Sam is there; his voice, anyway. Telling him _easy, man_ and _calm down_ with a detached sort of hardness that doesn't mesh with the frantic alarm from before.

He struggles to heed his brother's warning, to _calm down_ in the lifting fog of sedation and sync his breathing with the artificial push of oxygen into his lungs. He's propped up in the bed, can't pinpoint any specific sources of pain, his mind preoccupied by the intrusion of the tube.

His vision clears slowly, and he sees there are multiple people in the room, but only recognizes Sam. His heart rate quickens at the realization that he's down among strangers, out of control in every conceivable way. He loses whatever pattern of false breathing he's found, gags a bit around the tube and arches up from the mattress.

His brother lays a firm, warm hand on his arm, fingers tensing to draw his attention. He leans into the contact, focuses on Sammy instead of the other, unfamiliar presences hovering around his bed.

Sam's voice continues to drone, low and serious as he speaks to someone.

Doctor, he knows. Probably more than one. He thinks he remembers being pretty seriously fucked up, but his memories are muddy at best. Unreliable. Images slide loosely, mixing and muddling until he isn't sure what's real. Realizes with another choking start that it's all real. The here and now, and the Hell, then. Alastair, warden of Hell, and demon trapped in a stolen meatsuit.

 _You should talk to your plumber about the pipes._

Then a whole hell of a lot of pain. No pun intended.

He stirs in the bed, legs shifting like he means to do something, to escape this claustrophobic room, and the movement ignites fire in his side, an all-too familiar ragging of broken ribs.

"Dean?"

He startles, jerks too quickly in the direction of his brother's voice. The motion pulls unpleasantly on the tube, and his cottony, large-feeling head protests, vision blurring.

"Dean, hey. Hey, man. They're, uh, they're gonna take the tube out, okay?"

Real names. First, at least. That's not good. That means Sammy doesn't expect him to remember and recite whatever cover story he's told the doctors and nurses, and probably police, by now. But if he looks anything like he feels, he figures no one is going to be expecting him to remember much.

An unfamiliar face replaces Sam, a middle-aged man with professionally kind eyes. "Dean? You've been under sedation for the past two days, and we've had you intubated until the swelling around your larynx went down."

He nods, though he can only make sense of about half of what the man is saying.

"I'm going to remove the breathing tube now. Try not to cough when it comes out. You've got some fractured ribs that won't take too kindly to that."

Despite the order, and despite having done this drill before, he still coughs, jarring broken ribs and rattling his aching head. Spots dance in his vision, and gentle hands fix a canula under his nose. He closes his eyes, pulls greedily on the oxygen. The angle of his bed is meant to ease his breathing, through the fire in his side and the swelling in his throat, but every shallow breath he manages is still a new brand of torture.

 _You've got a lot to learn, boy._

The nurses want to know all about his pain, his level of difficulty breathing. Everything on a tidy scale of one through ten, but no one thinks to ask about the parts inside that are hurting the most.

Because maybe Sam was right.

 _You're holding me back. I'm a better hunter than you are. Stronger, smarter. I can take out demons you're too scared to go near._

The siren didn't make them hurt each other. Just made them honest.

He _is_ scared. Terrified. Of where he's been. What he's done. The pieces of himself lost along the way. And he's weak. His weakness is what damned him in that room, with Alastair. His weakness is what landed him in this bed. Weakness of spirit, of soul.

"He's in pain," Sam snaps, his voice breaking through the muted din. "Can you just give him something already?"

His gaze lazily follows the blurry outline of a figure stepping to his bedside, and he draws away as the nurse approaches, holds his breath. She fiddles with dials and controls; there's a beep, then a chilly zip through his veins.

"Hey." Sam's close, a giant hand on his arm, a puff of warm breath against his cheek. "Hey, man. It's good to see you awake." He speaks quietly but hurriedly, like they don't have a lot of time.

 _How long?_ he wants to ask. _How bad?_ But whatever they just pushed into his IV is the good stuff, and it's growing more difficult by the second to form a coherent thought. Besides, the answers are irrelevant. He's been hurt badly enough, been tethered to enough hospital beds with tubes in unappreciated places to know he's not going anywhere anytime soon.

Isn't sure he wants to, even if he could.

"Alastair," he croaks while he still can, and is instantly winded. He draws on the oxygen in the canula, licks horribly dry lips.

His brother's eye twitches. "Dead," he says. He pats Dean's arm. "He's dead, man."

 _You're safe,_ he means. But Dean's not sure he deserves to be. He definitely isn't worth all this trouble, and Sam deserves to know why.

They should have just left him there.

The kid's staring with those big doe eyes, so he nods, eyelids growing heavy as the pain in his head and ribcage and throat fade. He sags back against the bed, succumbing to the soothing pull of the drugs in his system.

 _To be continued..._


	4. Chapter 4

_Author Note: One more chapter after this one. This little story is all sunshine and puppies and roses, isn't it? :P_

* * *

 **Casualty**

 **Chapter Four**

 _Why didn't you just leave me there, then?_

He finally says it out loud, the thought that's been plaguing him since Alastair dropped the bomb, words and knowledge that cut deeper than any blade could. Or maybe the thought's been plaguing him longer, since he came back in the first place. Without understanding, without knowing _why_.

He's not just asking, he's demanding to know.

Why bother dragging his ass out of the fire and back into the world he's damned?

 _It's not blame that falls on you, Dean_.

But it is. _God_ , it is.

He's never been worthy of all these chances, only manages to screw each one up more than the last. He didn't deserve the second chance offered by the bound reaper, and definitely not the third he was given with Dad's deal. And now that Castiel has just confirmed his role in all of this, he should have been left there in the pit to rot.

Not saved, again.

 _You have to stop it._

Cas can spew all the bullshit angel propaganda he wants. None of it mattered. None of it _matters_. He can't do it.

 _You guys are screwed._

Since the day the man died – for _him_ , a lopsided trade if ever there was one – Dean's never once been happyhis father isn't around. Not until this moment.

 _It was supposed to be your father_.

But Dad was strong. Strong enough to withstand Alastair's razors. Strong enough to take advantage of an open gate and climb out of Hell to save his sorry ass. Again.

And when faced with the same tortures, Dean just…folded. Broke.

 _Daddy's little girl…_

It's not just shame that keeps him from looking Cas in the face, though there's plenty of that. He couldn't look the angel in the eye even if he wanted to. Every inch of his body from the waist up _hurts,_ too damn badly to move much. He shifts without thinking, bites down on a groan. Out of the corner of his eye – the one that still won't focus completely – he sees Cas lean closer.

He doesn't need the pity, and he sure as hell doesn't deserve it. All of this pain – it's not like he didn't have it coming. Not like he didn't bring upon himself. He wishes Castiel would just _leave_ , but knows the angel won't budge from his vigil until Sam comes back to take the baton. Which should be any time. This is the longest his brother has been away from his side, that Dean can remember. They won't leave him alone.

He gets that he's hurt, and that it's bad. If he starts to think otherwise, the sore throat left behind by the ventilator, the continued necessity of the nasal canula are constant reminders. Someone in scrubs told him that healing wouldn't be automatic, that it would be a process, and he'd wanted to laugh, tell them he's been around the block. He's had concussions, and he's broken ribs. The half-crushed larynx might be new territory, but he knows how to manage pain.

Or, he did.

"You need to be more careful."

He lifts an impossibly heavy hand to swipe at the tear track drying on his cheek, clears his throat with a wince. There's water on a cart next to his bed, a plastic cup with a long straw. He's not sure he can summon the energy – the _strength_ – to lift the damn cup, and he sure as hell isn't asking for help.

He swallows with effort, and it feels like gargling broken glass. His fingers twitch toward the button controlling the flow of his painkillers but he draws his hand away, makes a fist and presses it into the mattress. "You said that already." The few words leave him light-headed, his throat aching. And, Christ, his voice is wrecked.

"I'm not talking about the angels. I'm talking about your brother."

He turns his head at that, too quickly. His battered brain pulses hotly, a knife behind his left eye. He sucks in a breath, and it takes a moment for the spots to clear. "What?" he grits, squinting at a blurry Castiel who refuses to come into focus.

Cas tilts his head, and there's the pity again.

He's drowning in it.

"Cas, what about my brother," he pushes out around the pain in his head, his raw, damaged throat.

"I didn't kill Alastair, Dean." The angel stares meaningfully.

He recoils, heart thudding at the implications. "Sam did," he says numbly. "With his mind."

Cas nods once, eyes narrowed. "You need to be more careful."

With Sam? _Of_ Sam? He doesn't ask, doesn't want to know this. Not now. Not on top of everything else. He nods, licks his lips. "Yeah," he whispers hoarsely. His head pounds mercilessly, and the stitch in his side aches deeper, like a knife is buried to the hilt between his ribs. "Okay."

"Hey."

Sam's voice draws his gaze sharply to the doorway, and his vision blurs again. He leans back against his pillow and pulls on the oxygen, waiting for his head to clear. His brother and Cas exchange hushed words, but nothing he can really follow beyond confirming that Sam didn't overhear their conversation.

He must doze off, for just a few minutes. The pain is what drags him back, an incessant ragging in his ribcage, and he knows he's well-past due for a dose of painkillers. He's got a direct line to the good stuff, and that happy button on a cord temptingly near his right hand. But the morphine won't touch the _real_ pain he's feeling, it'll just fuck with his head. And his head's already pretty well fucked.

When he works his eyes open, he sees that Cas is gone, and Sam is now sitting stiffly in the chair at his side. His brother perks up when he realizes Dean is awake, leans forward.

"Hey, man. How you feeling?" Sam sounds hopeful, like Dean's condition has improved drastically in the time it took him to grab a shower and some solid food.

He doesn't answer, and it hurts like hell when he rolls his eyes and repositions his aching head so he's facing a dark, unoccupied corner of the room.

Sam goes on, unaffected. "I talked to your doctor. Sounds like you'll be good to go in a couple of days. Just…taking it easy. But I think I might be able to spring you tomorrow."

He's having a hard time following what his brother is saying, but he honestly isn't trying very hard. He gets that Sam is getting antsy, probably sick of watching Dean sleep and more than ready to move on. This full-stop is a rare occurrence. Hospitals are for the really serious stuff, and only for as long as absolutely necessary. By Winchester standards, if release has been mentioned, it's no longer necessary.

Sam probably assumes he's just as antsy, stuck in this bed, flat on his back for days, with strangers in and out of the room constantly wanting to talk about his pain. He's been here a while, longer than when the semi left him teetering on that whisper-thin line between life and death, but he's in no hurry to get out of here. To get back _out there_ , and face whatever fate Cas and the angels have waiting for him.

Sam grips his arm. "Dean."

He swallows, closes his eyes and winces through the pain. Castiel is the one who's literally put the fate of the world on his shoulders, but he's finding it impossible to face his brother. Sam already thinks he's weak. That he's holding him back.

He has no idea.

Dean supposed he should thank his brother, for saving his life. Except Sam has no idea what he saved.

Just like Dad didn't know what he was saving.

Sam _should_ know. He deserves to know. But Dean can't bring himself to say it. Or anything, really.

He's just disappointing everyone today.

 _Find someone else._

 _I'm not – I'm not strong enough._

He slipped up, gave into the pain and made it so much more real by saying it out loud.

And now there's no taking it back.

He's drifting, finding it difficult to concentrate through the increasing pain. Sam shakes his arm, probably doesn't know it sends fiery agony radiating through his ribcage.

"You shouldn't have saved me."

He doesn't even realize he's said it out loud until the fingers around his arm tighten painfully.

"What?"

He jerks his chin, and he's sure Sam sees, when he drags the cord closer and pushes the button. He's had enough revelations to last the day. To last a lifetime. He can't take another hit.

 _I guess I'm not the man either of our dads wanted me to be._

 _To be continued..._


	5. Chapter 5

_Notes at end._

* * *

 **Casualty**

 **Chapter Five**

Sam's getting anxious, jittery. He's been in one place too long – _they've_ been in one place too long. Hospital, sure, he gets that. Serious concussion, medically-induced coma, no solid food for at least another week. He _gets it._

He also remembers another extended hospital stay three years earlier, when Dean had been given mere weeks to live and had checked himself out of the ICU because he couldn't stand the thought of wasting away in one of these stiff, narrow beds. His brother had hardly possessed the strength to stand up straight, but he'd still had that infuriating, awe-inspiring trademark Dean Winchester swagger.

Now, though, he seems completely indifferent, and unmotivated to leave. It's not necessarily that he wants to stay here, tethered to a hospital bed and surrounded by strangers, he just doesn't seem to care. Seems indifferent, and unbothered. _Un-Dean._

 _You shouldn't have saved me_.

Sam can't stop replaying Dean's words in his head, words that he can't make sense of. So his brother tortured souls in Hell. Souls that were in Hell for a _reason._ Each time he thinks back on that hoarse, whispered statement, he feels a different visceral emotional response.

Mostly it's fear, that the big brother he'd looked up to, who he'd idolized, had lost so much of himself in Hell that he'll never be the same.

Sometimes it's anger, however irrational, over the fact Dean has allowed himself to wallow like this.

There's no reason to remain here, even if the doctor hasn't technically released him. That's never stopped them before. Whatever is hurting him so damn badly he can't even look Sam in the eye, it won't be eased by the painkillers in his IV. Whatever help Dean needs, he's not going to find it in this place.

"Hey. Dean." He has to repeat himself twice before his brother acknowledges him, before he slowly rolls his head against the thin pillow and blinks like his eyelids weigh a hundred pounds. Sam swallows, throat aching. "We're gonna get out of here. Okay?"

Dean exhales heavily, winces, and turns away once more.

That irrational anger once again heats Sam's chest, and he clenches his jaw as he leans forward, grips his brother's arm, probably too hard given his condition. "Dean." _Give me something, man. You've gotta give me something._

"Sure."

It hurts Sam just to hear his brother's wrecked, grating voice, and the flare of anger quickly fades. He lifts his hand from Dean's arm. And he really shouldn't be forcing him to speak. Whatever is going on in his head, he's also nowhere near one hundred percent, physically. There's a reason he's still in this bed. His concussion was a serious one, and between his bruised larynx and broken ribs, every breath has to be excruciating.

Sam's waning patience is tested again as he waits for Dean to dress in the clothes he brought in. His brother's movements are stiff and awkward, slow. Like he just _doesn't care._

 _He's not what he used to be. He's not strong enough._

 _Prove me wrong, man,_ Sam silently pleads as Dean shuffles across the parking lot toward the Impala. _Give me something._

They sit in the car a long moment as Sam contemplates their next move, keys still in his hand.

After two days in the coma and no appetite to speak of after waking, Dean's at least ten pounds light, appallingly gray and seemingly swallowed by his coat. He sags on the passenger side of the bench, quiet and uncomfortable. There's a decent motel in town – someplace pricier and practically pristine given the usual state of their stops – where they can hole up for a few days while Dean finishes recovering, because if there's one thing Sam's sure of, it's that Dean is nowhere near recovered.

 _He can't do it._

 _He can't get the job done._

His own words echo back through his mind, and he flinches. The past few months, Sam's done his brother a disservice. He's been a great hunter, but a shit brother. Not there for Dean when he needed to be. He just wants this _fixed_ , wants to go back in time and save Dean when it mattered, from the hounds. Because he thinks now it may be too late.

 _You shouldn't have saved me_.

Sam knows his desperation to have his broken brother fixed is coming across as insensitivity, as dickishness. Because his anxiety isn't solely due to what's going on with Dean. There's an itch under his skin, a relentless buzz in his head, leaving him snappy and short-tempered, on edge. It's the blood. He knows that.

Dean needs him more than Sam needs anything Ruby can give him. This situation calls for a different type of strength, but he's impatient, out of practice, and wholly incapable of being what his brother needs right now.

"We're going to Bobby's," he announces, voice too loud, and twists the key in the ignition.

* * *

He didn't think to warn Bobby they're coming, but the older hunter doesn't seem surprised to see them at his door. Never really does.

Bobby takes one look at Dean, hugging his ribs and looking like a passing breeze could knock his ass to the ground, and wordlessly holds open the door, eyes wide beneath the brim of his tattered cap.

Sam herds his too-pliable brother into the dim, dusty house. "We just…we need someplace to lay low for a while." He'll have to explain, have to tell Bobby what happened, but for now he's careful to remain vague about the details, about how long they might stay.

"Of course," Bobby says with a nod. "Make yourselves at home." Then he grabs Sam's arm, holds him back as Dean steps farther into the house.

"He took a hit," Sam obliges quietly, so his brother won't overhear.

The man's fingers tighten around his arm. "More'n one, looks like."

"Yeah." He bobs his head, purses his lips. "Yeah. He'll be okay, though."

Bobby's hand falls away, and he cocks his head. "Sam…"

"He'll be okay," he repeats, firmly enough to have Bobby recoiling, and follows his brother into the kitchen.

* * *

He thinks Bobby's got Dean pinned down somewhere, probably out at the car where he's been seeking solitude the past couple of days. That, at least, makes sense to Sam. That's a normal thing for Dean to do.

His brother's still not talking much, and eating less, though to be fair, there isn't much he can eat comfortably. He doesn't seem to care about much of anything, suspended in a sort of listless state of limbo where he refuses to acknowledge any pain, refuses to look for any reason to move on from Bobby's house. Sam's stuck right there in limbo with him, just…waiting. Wanting to know _why._

He rolls his head on his shoulders, kneads a knot in his neck as the coffee finishes brewing. An empty whiskey bottle next to the percolator catches his eye. Dean might not be eating much, but he's certainly drinking plenty.

Sam pours a cup, brings it to his lips as he turns toward the study. He startles at the sudden figure standing in the middle of the kitchen, hot coffee splashing over his fingers. He shakes out his hand, blinks. "Cas?" He frowns, takes a step back. "What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to see how Dean is doing."

"He's doing…" Sam sighs, sets the mug aside on the table. "I mean, he's okay. He's a fast healer." He doesn't bother keeping the accusation from his tone. Not that he wasn't grateful for the assist – as much of one as it was – but the angel played a part in putting Dean in that room in the first place.

It doesn't even faze Cas. "I was referring more to his emotional wounds," he says. "It can't have been easy for him, learning the truth like that. From Alastair."

Sam's a quick study, and has a decent enough poker face. Of _course_ there are things that happened to Dean in that room, that torture chamber spattered with blood he'd spilled one way or another, that he doesn't know. Things that Castiel does. It sucks to lie to an angel, a being he's spent a lifetime building up in his head, but hell, he's been lying to his brother for months now. This tiny deceit barely feels like crossing a line at all. Especially if it grants him some insight into why Dean is taking this hit so hard.

"Yeah." He rubs at the back of his head. "It's been hard. But he's…he's dealing with it." With _what?_ What did Alastair say to him?

"That's good," Cas says, clearly relieved. "And it's a good sign that he told you. Frankly, I wasn't sure that he would."

Sam lifts a shoulder, feeling the sting of truth in the angel's words. "We're brothers," he replies in a tight voice. "We tell each other everything."

Castiel sighs. "I can only imagine the weight Dean is feeling, knowing that his actions in Hell began the apocalypse."

Sam recoils, drops his chin to cover the reaction and banks on the fact the angel doesn't have a lot of experience interpreting human facial expressions. "Right," he chokes out, mind racing. _God, Dean._ "Yeah. Like I said, he's dealing."

 _You shouldn't have saved me._

It makes so much sense now, and _God_ , how he wishes it didn't.

* * *

Bobby rubs a palm over his mouth, doesn't speak for a long time. Finally, he picks up the tumbler full of whiskey from the table, drains it in one gulp. "Does he know that you know?"

"No." Sam swallows, a guilty flush warming his cheeks. His gaze darts to the back door, the yard beyond where Dean has one more retreated. The car's been running great, but he has no doubt his brother would take the damn thing down to a thousand pieces and put it back together just to keep his hands busy and his mind occupied. "Cas thought I already knew. That Dean told me."

The older hunter quirks an eyebrow. "Not gonna get any brownie points lying to an angel."

He's done worse. A lie isn't going to take him down, not in the grand scheme of things. Sam shifts his shoulders, that uncomfortable, unreachable itch prickling beneath his skin.

The screened door smacks against the frame, rousing their attention as Dean reenters the house. He raises his eyebrows in acknowledgement, then shuffles past wordlessly, with slow, awkward steps. It's been a few days, but he's still too pale, too lined with pain. Whatever he's doing with the Impala can't be easy on his ribs, or good for his battered skull.

"Should you tell him?" Bobby asks after a door shuts upstairs. His eyes search out a refill as he rolls the bottom of his empty glass along the scratched, worn tabletop. "That you know? That…we know?"

 _Should you get this show on the road,_ he means. Sam shakes his head firmly. "No, Bobby, I…he already thinks I don't…" He bites down on his lip. He can't make excuses for what Dean thinks, or why. He's the one who did that, siren or no. He's not done his brother a lot of favors. He knows that. "We can – we'll be here for him, as long as it takes, but…we can't tell him what we know."

It would absolutely destroy his brother, if Dean wasn't destroyed already.

 _You shouldn't have saved me._

Like he doesn't deserve to be here, like there's no _point_ in his being here. Like it wouldn't have left a hole in the world if he'd died in that room, by Alastair's hand.

He's so wrong, and he needs to know that. He needs to _see_ that.

Sam doesn't know how his brother's going to come back from this, but he _has to_. He might be stronger than Dean, but that doesn't mean he can do this without him.

It's just going to take one hell of a shove to get Dean's head back in the game, and he's not sure he's the best one to deliver that push.

* * *

 _End._

* * *

 _Obviously "It's a Terrible Life" is the ep after this, so hopefully this ending butts up to that as well as it can. 'Twas the goal._

 _So I've got a couple of things in the works at the moment, an accidental tag to "Born Under a Bad Sign" that I want to try to get finished by the end of the month, and another stand-alone S5 fic that takes place after "My Bloody Valentine."_

 _I'm going to take a short fic break beginning in April (except for any tags for the rest of S14 that need to be written, or any stories my prompt master asks of me) to expand a 2k word short story into 6-8k words for Camp Nano, then focus on a full first draft of my novel by the end of the summer._ For anyone interested in the short stories I have slated to be published over the next few months, or the progress of the fantasy trilogy I've been drafting for the past year and a half, you can like and follow **"Chrissie Rohrman Writes Things"** on FB.


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